On the Lake
by SarahBear1214
Summary: The boat glided upon the gleaming lake. The sun had nearly disappeared behind the dark mountains, and two men, merely shadows, sat next to each other, fishing. Time ticks by, as the inevitable draws closer. In other words: a short, minute by minute account of Fredo's death, told from the point of views of Al Neri, Michael, and, of course, Fredo. Oneshot.


**A/N: This is a quick one-shot of Fredo's death in Godfather II, seen from the POVs of Al Neri, Michael, and, of course, Fredo. Reviews much appreciated.**

 _6:55 PM_

The boat glided upon the gleaming lake, and menacing silence descended upon the two men sitting awkwardly within. Dusk had fallen—over the peaks of the distant mountains, soft rays of the fallen sun cast their illumination upon the creaking vessel. The mountains themselves seemed to stand in judgment over the scene about to unfold. The two men were the only souls drifting upon the vast water; miles stretched on with no witness, no savior, no friend. Only the endless, emotionless lake. And, as the small boat glided closer to the heart of the callous water, time ticked ever closer to the scene's inevitable conclusion.

 _6:56 PM_

Al Neri grasped the meaningless rod in his hand, his eyes cast down upon the water below. His face was blank, his eyes unreadable, his every movement relaxed and casual. Not that it really mattered. He could sense the anxious fear that had descended upon the man before him. Besides, the moment that boat had drifted from the sanctuary of the dock, Fredo Corleone's fate had been sealed. Quickly, Neri's eyes flickered to the weapon carefully concealed under a woolen blanket.

Seven o'clock. Seven o'clock he had decided to do it. Neri liked to set rules and limits and timelines upon himself. It helped him focus, helped him accomplish the task at hand. Only there was nothing, nothing that could make this task easy.

Neri could not remember the last time he had hesitated to kill. Even in his cop days, he had been quick to shoot, fast to strike. Since joining the Corleone family, he had become more proficient and remorseless a killer than he had known he could be. And Neri could not think of a single person in his long life he had regretted executing. Not even that low life scum whose death had single handedly destroyed his police career.

But this was different. This was no violent pimp, or cold hearted murderer, or vicious thug. This was not even a clever, deadly business rival, like Emilio Barzini. This was Fredo. Dumb, weak, but ultimately warm hearted Fredo. And as Neri thought of putting a bullet in his skull, he felt, for the first time, a consuming dread within his own long forsaken heart.

 _6:57 PM_

Frederico "Fredo" Corleone cast his line into the water for what would be the very last time. He felt tears stinging at his eyes, but he quickly blinked them away. He would be brave. He would be brave like Papa was always brave.

But Fredo could not deny the terror that had paralyzed his mind, enveloped his body. Pure, wild, gripping terror. He could feel Al Neri at his back, still and casual, as cool as always. In some strange way, it was almost comforting—for a second, Fredo could pretend that everything was okay, that he was simply fishing with a friend.

But everything was not okay, and the man beside him was no friend. Only a few minutes ago, the world had seemed alright. And then Connie came and took Anthony away, at Michael's request. And Al Neri insisted upon continuing their trip anyway—"already have all the stuff", "no sense wasting a perfectly good evening". Fredo may not have been the brightest of his siblings, but he knew—despite what everyone said—he knew he was not an idiot. And he knew in his mind and in his heart the true reason he was on this boat.

In his final minutes, Fredo thought of Mikey. Not Don Michael, not the unrecognizable man who struck dread and fear into his heart. No, he thought of Mikey. His kid brother. His friend. He thought of the little child with the soft dark hair and the bright brown eyes already so alight with such intelligence and life. He thought of the small, introverted teen that he and Sonny used to pin down and beat upon, who fought back with such ferocity that you'd never guess was there. He thought of the mild college boy, who had done what Fredo himself had never had the strength to do, and outright defied their father, rejected the family business. Fredo had loved that kid so much, that brave kid who went off to a war and came home a hero, who always seemed to be so assured and gentle and steady and warm.

But that kid was gone. Gone long ago. And Fredo had done nothing to stop it.

"Hail Mary, full of grace"

 _6:58 PM_

Don Michael Corleone stood in complete silence. He could hardly see the boat that idled far from his infamous chilling gaze, yet he could not look away. Just barely, he could make out the two silhouettes, black against the smolder of the setting sun.

Michael felt empty. His heart was not tainted with dread like Al Neri, nor was his mind paralyzed by fear like Fredo. No tears threatened his hardened eyes; no expression crossed his imperial face. There was only ice.

Yet, this was so much worse, so much more horrible than anything Michael had ever experienced. He did not feel alive. He did not even feel human. Time seemed to freeze, and the world around him became a surreal blur, as though he were ensnared in some bizarre dream. His reflection stared back at him from the gleaming window, but it was twisted, distorted. Outside, the boat continued to rock upon the silent lake, and Michael could swear he heard every creak and rasp of the distant vessel.

He stared at the black shadow that was his brother Fredo. His brother who betrayed him. Who deceived him. Who harbored envy and greed and brought a grave threat upon Michael's home and Michael's family. Oh, he had warned him. That day long ago in Moe Greene's casino, he had made it plain to Fredo where his loyalties must lie. But Fredo—stupid Fredo—had not listened to him, had made the fatal error of siding against Michael Corleone.

Michael told himself this, but it brought him no comfort. Try as he might, he could not get the picture of his brother out of his head, gazing up at him with eyes so full of sorrow and naivety and innocence. Oh, Fredo, Fredo. Where had things gone so wrong? What mistake had he so egregiously made? Why was he so capable to hold his business together, yet so helpless as his family fell apart?

Another image of Fredo flashed before Michael's mind's eye. His brother, a warm smile on his face, extending his hand towards Mike in genial congratulations, and being forcibly thrust back by Sonny. While everyone else shot Michael looks of disappointment and words of bitterness, Fredo had looked at him with pride. The smile burned behind Michael's eyes, and for one moment, a small quiver of sorrow pierced through the ice of Michael Corleone's heart, and a single tear slid down his vacant face.

 _6:59 PM_

The boat glided upon the gleaming lake. The subtle dread pressing upon Al Neri's spirit intensified with each passing second. Words of prayer drifted from Fredo Corleone's mouth, but they went unheard, drowned out by his simmering panic and his bitter regret. The tear of Michael Corleone dried upon his cheek, and once more he felt the familiar ice settle upon his soul.

Out of the silence came five words. They were soft but they were broken, emerging from a life of memories, of love, of envy, of regret. They came from the man who had so much to feel, meant for the man who felt nothing at all. They spoke of a life that once was- a better, kinder life—and they prayed for the life that might once be again. They were five simple words, with so much behind them.

"Tell Mikey I love him."

Silence fell again. Seconds ticked by. Michael stood in absolute stillness, Fredo resumed his solemn prayer of unheard words, and Al Neri slid the gun out from beneath the woolen blanket.


End file.
